


A Certain Kind of Hero

by Insignias



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insignias/pseuds/Insignias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good boys don't have to pretend, but no one's ever asked Steve where he falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Kind of Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a kink meme fill, I have completely gutted it. It's still pretty similar, but hopefully this one actually makes sense as opposed to the hot mess I wrote a year ago. I hope you enjoy! So glad to be getting back in the groove again.

Dark hair fans out across a pale, sinuous neck. Black tendrils frame stark collarbones, until their contrast is replaced with blotchy, heated red. 

Shame is a pretty word; an easy word. One you can lock everything you really feel behind, hide every secret you feel, paste excuses over like cheap wallpaper. As if that'll stop the thoughts from oozing out, sinking deep into your skin like the worst kind of bruise; lingering quiet beneath the skin until one careless press, one little thought, and it rushes back up to choke away your breath.

And sometimes Steve wants to be punished.

Steve has had many fantasies about many people, but none have made his heart stutter like this; his cheeks flame fever-hot and eyes blow wide with shame and hurt and want. There's a forgiveness for wanting your comrades; it's war and death marches in time with cough of bullets taking bets on who's next to join its ranks. The men at your side are friends, your brothers, the closet you may ever come to a family of your own, and it's not all that unexpected to think of them in the dead of night when sleep is a memory you can't quite catch.

But this, half-curled on his bed with his cock in his hand; panting and squirming for the fleeting touch of an enemy, a murderer, a monster in human skin--that is unforgivable and he knows it. Knows it in the shudder of his muscles and the ache in his chest and the answering throb in his dick as he tries to think of something else, anyone else, but it also comes tumbling back to that ink-black hair and mad green eyes.

He bites his lip and squeezes, quick and vicious, as his feet slide up the bed, toes flexing. He wonders, just for the barbed coil of guilt, what Dr. Erksine would say if he saw his greatest achievement now: jerking off in his room and (trying not to) pretend it was being done by a whippet-thin myth with poison eyes and a all too knowing smile. 

His next exhale seems obscenely loud in the still, filtered air; an afterthought and quickly discarded as he cranes his head back against his pillow, arching for the phantom feel of long fingers ghosting up his belly, tracing the divots of muscle before scratching down in short, sharp jolts of sensation. They finally curl, lazy and perfunctory, at the base of his cock. Long, supple fingers sear ice against his overheated skin; spark fire in his veins.

"Look at you," He croons, smooth as snakeskin, "Such a big boy. So large. Commanding, you might say." The god chuckles, as if amused. "Is that why you did it, Steven? So that your people would think you worthy of their faith? Their hope, perhaps?" Cool fingers tighten and Steve lets out a choked sound, rocking into it, only for the motion to be halted by a single, long-fingered hand, pressing into his abdomen with careless force. Like it is effortless, like Steve could be pinioned and awaiting his pleasure. The thought makes him shudder, precome leaking, and it makes the pale man smile. "But are you truly worthy of it, Steven? Their faith, their trust?" Breath shudders against his cheeks, calls gooseflesh to his sweat-slick skin, "When all you truly want, from the bottom of your poor, pathetic, mortal heart, is to be fucked by me until you can't breathe?"

The quality of the air shifts as Loki looms above him, his unoccupied hand coming up to smooth a thumb over Steve's tender, bitten-red lips, "Do you think I would be good to you, little soldier?" A pale pink tongue darts out to swipe over thin, dry lips, "That I would break you in half and then a little more, and refit the pieces to my liking?"

Fingers, clench tight and squeeze. "A small boy from Brooklyn with desperate dreams and no hope of reaching them. A sick man who dreams of being fucked every night, and God be damned by who it is. Even a murderer, a monster, an inhuman thing will do so long as they fill your holes like you need." He can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, but still he nods, desperate and keening in sharp, thin bursts. "What would you give to me, Captain?" Breath ghosts against his swollen, fevered cheeks. Teeth nip sharp at his chin, "What would you give me for it."

Steve coughs as the hand at his throat lifts, but cannot do more than whine high in his aching throat as his other hand tightens, pumping his cock with tight, quick strokes. "You've gotten everything you could have wanted, little Captain. Fame, respect, work you cherish, people who love you," The hand twists, punishing and brutal, forcing a harsh grunt from Steve, who tosses his head to the side and pants as the pleasure bleeds into pain and rushes back twofold, "You command a team, you're alive, and yet all you truly want to be is ordered. All you want is to be told what to do. To forget. To stop thinking. To be told your purpose in your stupid, minuscule, mortal life."

He groans agreement, wordless and pained; bites his lip to stifle the sound. Loki sneers, " Such a kind boy! So considerate of others that he would quiet himself and deny them his wretched, ugly voice! Truly, what a sight!"

Loki presses forward once more, jerking Steve's chin to force their eyes to meet. "Do you know what I do with good men, Steven Rogers?” He snaps Steve's head back, careless and mean, to bite and suck at his bared throat, “do you?"

Steve stares, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, trembling with effort and the need to come. A moment passes, two, before he licks his lips and he shakes his head. Loki's sneer deepens, then morphs into something too feral to be a smile; wide and large and dark. "I fuck it out of them," He breathes, mouth open and blood-red; eyes glittering like the shine of a blade, "I fuck them deep and I fuck them hard. Until they can’t even remember their name."

Loki shoves his fingers into Steve's mouth, rough and hard enough that Steve fights not to gag. Loki watches him with avid interest, pressing deeper, smile curling as Steve's cheeks hollow; licking the intruding pressure with timid, unsure sucks. Green eyes narrow in appreciation and Loki spreads them wide.

"You have a lovely mouth, Captain,” He murmurs, “I would have you take me in it." The thumb of his free hand rubs circles against the head of Steve's cock; smearing precum as it dribbles out in a steady stream, and then shoves his thumbnail into the slit just to watch Steve jerk and writhe. "And after I came down your throat you would lick me clean."

Steve shudders at the thought, eyes blowing wide. He jerks forward with no thought; to take those fingers deeper, to encourage and perhaps inspire, to do it now--but they pull free, inexorably, with a slick, obscene pop.

"No." Loki hums, chiding and sweet. "This time you'll take me here." Fingers, slick with spit, trace the trace of his precum, slip under his balls, and Steve's eyes widen. It's a treat, this, a gift; something he reserves for successful missions and when he's been very, very good. He hitches his feet up, quick and easy, hardly any stretch at all--spreading his legs wide.

Loki could do anything to him in this moment, anything at all, and Steve would beg for more.

Long fingers find his hole and press inside without pause. Steve shudders; hisses a long, dry exhale, toes flexing and curling tight. It's tight; hot and strange, but welcome and so, so good. He takes them as deep as he can without complaint, grunting for each inch; keening into wet cotton as Loki's fingers twist.

Steve is close, so very, very close. If Loki were to press against that spot inside him; secret and shameful and so, so good, he would be undone.

But Loki is not kind, and Steve cannot do anything but whimper.

He spreads his fingers wide, only two, and Steve thinks he should be startled it is only that, but his back is arching, cock aching, and he can only grunt and buck for more.

Loki sighs, a soft, indulgent sound. "So impatient," His fingers twist, spread, avoid the spot inside him with practiced, agonized ease. "Look at you. Spread out beneath me; wanting, needing, as if you deserve it, when I cannot even get my fill."

His fingers curl inside him, brush tantalizingly close, and Steve cannot stop the keen that escapes let alone the way his hips buck forward for that one final inch.

"Ah, ah." Croons the demigod, his fingers retreating until they're almost free of him. Steve whimpers, helpless, for the loss. "Not yet, my darling Captain. You haven't begged.”

“Please.” Steve whispers, instant and heartfelt. Everything, anything, he need only ask. His jaw aches, caught between the need to shout his surrender and remain as quiet as he must, “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything. I want you inside me, I want you so much, I—”

Loki watches him; eyes blown dark. He licks his lips, avid and searching, delight caught tight in his features, the way he seems to shiver with each plea. Steve works his hips in helpless jerks, caught and pinned under his hands and gaze; desperate and mad with need.

“Please. Loki, please.”

And suddenly fingers are there; long and callous-rough and deep. Scraping hard and vicious, making him cry out; loud and wanton as his cock jerks and his hips spasm, come arching in a ridiculous arch.

It’s only after the sparks behind his eyes have faded from his eyes and his body lies slumped on the bed that he remembers where he is, and jerks upright, jolting the fingers still inside him with a painful lurch. He grunts as they pull free, the familiar burn a now unpleasant reminder, and fire alights on his cheeks. He glances at the clock, and sighs with undisguised relief. He has hours left before anyone is due to arrive at his door. Enough that he can go out for a run and still catch a shower with no one the wiser. As if he needs this justification (he does). 

He pushes to his feet, muscles gummy, but the strain fading as he works blood back into them. He wipes himself clean with quick, methodical strokes; the actions familiar and oddly comforting. Method in madness, he supposes with a wince. 

It's simple to toss the soiled tissues in the trash;the worn towel to save his sheets goes in the laundry basket with little fuss, and pull on a pair of sweats. He pauses; hand outstretched for the worn sweatshirt folded in his drawer. In the old days he'd already be wearing a winter coat, October nip notwithstanding, and the cold would be nice. 

He hesitates, startles at that, then pulls it on. With burning ears, he jogs down the hall and takes the stairs two at a time. A run will clear his head, he's sure. He'll be able to think again soon.


End file.
